


White Wolf's Bite

by EstherRuth



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Half-Sibling Incest, I'm Going to Hell, Incest Kink, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Smut, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:07:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24744328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EstherRuth/pseuds/EstherRuth
Summary: It’s that sharp cut of his dark eyes when he glares at her. The strong clench of his jaw in irritation at something she’s said or done. Gods, it’s the strength of it, the strength of him. She cannot resist it.---Sansa stokes Jon's ire to satisfying results. (In which Sansa "undermining" Jon brings forth his dominant side).
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 25
Kudos: 181





	White Wolf's Bite

**Author's Note:**

> Read the tags! I thought of trying to justify this somehow but I have no defense: utter filth.

It’s that sharp cut of his dark eyes when he glares at her. The strong clench of his jaw in irritation at something she’s said or done. Gods, it’s the _strength_ of it, the strength of _him._ She cannot resist it. She rises from her seat as he dismisses them, quickly making her way to her solar. She closes the door but leaves it unlatched.

She knows what’s coming.

She’s standing at her desk with her back to him when Jon barges in like a whirlwind, latches the door behind him. She turns to face him. “What in the Seven Hells do you think you’re doing, Sansa?!” he demands.

She smirks. “Well, hello to you too, Jon. How kind of you to knock before entering my chambers.”

“Cut the horseshit Sansa,” he snaps, taking a step closer.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” she says innocently. Sansa isn’t making it easy for him.

(She never does).

She’s leaning on her desk, her hands resting on the edge—almost, but not quite, sitting upon it as he studies her warily.

“You will not disagree with me in front of the lords, Sansa. Do you understand me?” Jon growls and steps closer. He’s across the room from her still, yet the crackle of the hearth cannot compare to the heat between them both.

Sansa tilts her head to the side curiously. “I’m sorry, Jon. I thought as Lady of Winterfell my opinion was relevant,” she says sarcastically.

“The Lady of Winterfell does not outrank the King _,_ Sansa,” he says.

“So I suppose she is to never speak? Never have opinions? Never have anything to contribute?”

“Stop putting words in my mouth, Sansa,” he snarls. He looks at her mouth. He looks at her breasts. She’s breathing harder and her chest heaves, and just the feeling of his eyes roaming her form with his feral gaze, marking every inch of her body, makes her chest heave further.

“Then maybe, my _King,_ you should say what you mean,” she challenges him ( _always_ challenges him).

And then Jon growls and crosses the remaining space between them. He grabs the back of her head, pulling her hair in his fist tightly as he pulls her head back, exposing the milky white line of her neck, and he’s panting against her. He leans forward to whisper in her ear, his hot breath on her skin. “You’re just asking to be _punished,_ Sansa.”

She grasps at the desk behind her, teetering on the edge. “Is that so, Your Grace?” Sansa knows, however much Jon may pretend he doesn’t want the crown, he’s undeniably heated whenever she purrs _Your Grace_.

She knows it when Jon groans and she feels the vibration against her as his other hand grabs her waist and pulls her even closer to him, their bodies pressed tightly together—and she feels his hardness at her hip. “You want it _so bad_ ,” he croons lowly, almost soothingly, his fingers digging possessively into her scalp. “Don’t you, sweetheart?”

She shudders in response. And finally, Jon brings his mouth to her neck—his lips, his tongue, and his teeth. He kisses and then bites down, and she cannot help the moan that leaves her.

(He is a wolf).

He’s rucking up her skirts frantically, and he moans, bucking his hips against her when he finds her wet heat. “No smallclothes. You’re a filthy girl, Sansa.”

“Perhaps I am, Your Grace,” her husky voice causes him to buck into her again, grinding his hardness against her, pushing her back slightly onto the desk. He brings his mouth from her neck and crushes his lips to hers, forcing his tongue into her mouth, fighting for dominance, teeth sinking as he sucks her bottom lip so hard she tastes her blood. His fingers press hard against her mound and along her folds but refuse to give her further relief—ignoring her nub and only teasing at her entrance. When she finally releases her hold on the desk and grapples onto him for purchase, he swiftly tears his mouth from her and flips her around.

Strong hand on her back, Jon forces her torso onto the desk, bending her form to him. He pulls up her skirts and smacks her ass—once, twice, three times—until his pink handprint is on her porcelain skin, and he squeezes her flesh in his grip, moaning. She wriggles beneath him, rubs her thighs together for some relief.

“Oh no,” Jon tells her, “you don’t get to do that.” He tries to part her thighs, but she resists.

“Open your legs, Sansa!” he orders harshly.

She doesn’t budge.

“I said—” Jon presses his firm length into her bottom hard for emphasis, hands on her hips. “Open. Your. Damn. Legs. Sansa. Now!”

She separates them the tiniest bit and he is kicking them apart with his foot, and she hears him frantically unlacing his breeches. Jon slams into her. Deeply. Abruptly. A cry falls from her lips as he lets out a fevered groan. He pounds into her from behind, fingers digging into her hips and holding her in place.

He doesn’t slow, and continues a relentless, merciless pace that scarcely leaves her able to breathe. “Is this what you wanted, my sweet sister? Did you want your brother, your King, to punish you with his cock? To make you take it rough so you learn your lesson?”

“Yes,” she cries desperately.

“You did, didn’t you, dirty girl? You... _fuck_ _yes, Sansa,_ squeeze me just like that! You wanted your own brother’s filthy fucking cock absolutely buried to the hilt inside your pretty, soaking wet cunt?”

“Yes, please!”

“That’s it, Sansa, fuck I love it when you beg for me,” Jon drives into her with ragged breaths, his self-control snapping as his hips slap into her backside with every thrust. “Beg for your King. Beg for your brother’s dirty cock.”

“Oh, please,” she cries.

One hand moves back to her head and tugs at her hair again, the grip allowing him to fuck deeper into her. She gasps at the sensation—how he fills her so perfectly, how he gives her just the right combination of pain and pleasure. How he fucks her with such intensity that every nerve, muscle, and tendon in her body sings.

“ _Fuck, Sansa,”_ Jon moans, “that’s it, take it—take my cock! You deserve it for what you did!”

“Oh, yes, Jon!” He somehow fucked her even harder when she cried his name. And so she cried it over and over again, chasing that pleasure only he could give her.

“Ahh—yes, Sansa! _Fuck_ yes, that’s it. Say my name, sweetheart. Scream my name when you cum around your brother’s cock,” he growls.

A deep, guttural cry of “ _JON!”_ as she fell apart and clenched around him pulled his frantic release from him, spilling rope after rope of his cum into her cunt, thrusting and grunting like animals until they collapsed against one another.

Catching his breath, Jon pulls her down with him into a sweaty heap on the floor, cradles her to his chest and runs his fingers through her hair softly. In the quiet she listens to the steady rise and fall of his breath, tucks her head just beneath his chin. Eventually she asks, breathing against his neck: “do you forgive me for undermining you in front of the lords?”

She feels the warm rumble of his laughter as his arms wrap around her tighter and squeeze. “There’s nothing to forgive.” And then they both are laughing.

“Besides,” he whispers to her like a secret, leaning toward her ear, “these days I just get too excited when you do it to actually be mad.”

Sansa smiles and pulls back to look at him before placing a gentle kiss to his lips, which he returns warmly.

“But, you know, you could just ask me to be rough with you when you want,” he says.

“Ah,” she says, climbing into his lap as he watches her movements intently. “But where is the fun in that?”

He smiles. “Aye, that’s a good point,” Jon says, before bringing Sansa in toward him for another kiss.


End file.
